The Sparrow Boy
by TrailingEducation
Summary: The Sparrow Boy. That's what they called him. Born to a whore and left without a name, Sparrow Boy dreams of the sea while hammering out nails and swords. His life is a cycle of shame and poverty. Until one fateful day, when he tries on a new hat...
1. Iron

**The Sparrow Boy**

Captain Jack Sparrow had hired whores before. Their trade was simple; a purse of gold and a night of hedonism, and then they would disappear to a life of 'fulfilling' prostitution while he set sail in search of treasure. The arrangement was perfect. He did not care where the women went to or what they did with the money; all he cared about was returning to his ship and carrying on with his voyage.

For the women, the feeling was mutual. There were a select few who became enamoured with Jack but, once it became clear he would not return, their adoration turned into bitterness and cynicism replaced hope. The majority would have rather forgotten his name. They had their gold and enough memories to serve them a lifetime – after their little business transaction, their lives returned to the usual influx of regulars and occasional upperclassmen, and that was the way they preferred it.

But, for one prostitute, that all changed with the birth of her child. A little boy with raven black hair and brown eyes, he had the tanned skin of a familiar pirate that sent a shiver of disgust down her spine. She had laboured for many hours, an entire day and night, and when she looked down at the fruits of that labour a cold, indescribable rage filled her heart. That fateful night, as she clutched her baby to her chest and allowed him to suckle, she made a vow – a vow edged with vitriol and hatred, a vow meant to damn him and spite his father. She would not be a mother to a Sparrow Boy. In a crooked house on one of the quiet backstreets of London, she condemned him to a nameless life; and in doing so she sentenced him to wandering the streets, unclaimed, in the hopes that she could escape the crime that was his father.

For many years, the boy lived with that burden on his shoulders. His childhood was filled with confusion and loneliness as his mother shunned him, and the more he grew the more aware he became of his glaring resemblance to his father.

"What's up, Sparrow Boy?"

"How's the life of a whoreson, Sparrow Boy?"

"Will you be a pirate too, Sparrow Boy?"

He learnt shame early in life. He came to resent his nickname and tolerated it only because he had no other to use. He relied on himself for the most part – he was apprenticed as a blacksmith while his mother continued her career – but he was envious of the children around him, those who went home to their families at night, who were loved, cared for, that had something to lose. Sparrow Boy settled with the Blacksmith as a father figure, and he did what he could to live up to the role.

It was a late summer's evening in the shop, and Sparrow Boy had spent all day at the anvil crafting a new sword. He had hammered out the shape and created the pommel with what cheap materials he could find; now all he needed to do was sharpen it. The jewels he had set in the haft glinted in the waning sunlight's amber glow. He stood turning it in his hand for a long while, admiring it with a soft smile on his face.

The door opened. It let in a small rectangular peel of light and the sounds of the outside swept in – a crier reporting the latest news; chickens clucking; horse and stablemen shouting; etc. – before it was closed again, and the Blacksmith's voice filled the disturbed air.

"That lad's escaped from prison again!" he declared as he removed his duffel coat and hung it up. The Blacksmith was a tall, heavily bearded redhead with a penchant for smoking, and his voice bore the brunt of that addiction. It was gruff and intimidating, belying his otherwise gentle nature, and his clever eyes peeked out of the scruff of his hair much the same as a fox's. He stomped through the shop to the un-scrubbed sink, where he started to wash his hands of the grime of London.

"Has he?" Sparrow Boy asked as he stood his sword against a support beam.

"What's his name, Hank? That one you hang around with on occasion." The man snorted and spat into the basin. "Criers're saying he slipped the guards last night, when no one was watchin' him."

"How did he manage it this time?"

"He always finds a way, doesn't he? That lad's a cheat, he is. He'll do well with Funar."

"He's not a cheat. He does what he has to. The Lords aren't helping us survive," the child pulled the grindstone from underneath the worktable. It made a stony, grating noise against the floor. "Besides, he's nice enough and keeps the gold flowing."

"I'd steer clear of that Dodge if I were you, Sparrow. He'll lead you down paths you're not meant for. Just keep your nose to the grindstone, aye?"

The child nodded. Hank Dodge was one of his few friends in the restricted life he led and he understood his motives; if he had a mother who loved him as much as Dodge's, he would steal and cheat to ensure her health as well. In the months prior to his last arrest, Sparrow had heard she was stricken with consumption – and Dodge, angered and frightened by the news, had robbed a wealthy man's carriage in an attempt to pay for treatment. He spent a little of the money on materials for the shop, but when he went to spend the rest he had flagged up the concerns of the local police force and found himself in prison. It was a sad tale repeated many times over.

The pair worked in silence for a long while. Sparrow Boy returned to his sharpening and watched diligently as sparks flew out of the blade, and every now and then the Blacksmith would look up from taking stock and nod at his progress. The night swept in, but neither of them commented on it.

A shout outside disturbed them. The child dropped his piece as his mentor flew to the window. He peered through the dirty glass with narrowed eyes.

"Wait here," he ordered the boy, moving to the door. Sparrow Boy followed him until he reached the entrance, then paused, waiting until the Blacksmith had left it slightly ajar so he could peer out of the crack. As he did, he could hear the sounds of a scuffle taking place.

The man stepped out into the grimy street. He looked in the direction of the old library with his hands on his hips before marching towards the noise.

"Hey!" Sparrow Boy heard him shout as he vanished from sight; "What's going on here, then?"

The noises stopped. A muffled voice answered, but the Blacksmith cut it off.

"All of you against 'im? Doesn't seem fair to me."

"Sir, this is a police matter." The voice was clearer, more threatening, as if the owner was trying to intimidate the man. Sparrow Boy waited with baited breath for his reply.

"That's all well and good, but this lad here don't seem to be hurting anyone. Here, lad – stand up. That's it."

"Sir, don't interfere with-"

"I'm not interfering; I'm making it fair. If you want him, you'll have to take me on as well. That something you want to do?"

There was a long pause. Then a great hand opened the door and the Blacksmith marched in, clutching a young boy on the shoulder in front of him. Sparrow Boy's brow furrowed as he looked at them.

"Hank?" he murmured. The urchin looked up from the floor and smiled – a wicked smile that revealed a crooked set of yellowed teeth, his cunning, bruised eyes sparking the moment he was off of the street. He wore a bent pirate's hat and a tattered trench coat, and his boots were caked in mud.

"Sparrow!" he greeted him with a slap to the shoulder; "Did you see that? Them officers didn't know what hit 'em!"

"I thought you escaped?"

"I did! They don't know that, though!" Dodge swaggered into the shop and threw himself on the stool beside Sparrow Boy's workspace. The boy quietly followed him. He noticed a hint of envy in his friend's eyes when he picked up the sword, but he returned to his work without comment.

"That's the last time I'm helping you out with them, Dodge," the Blacksmith told him; "That's the last. I don't need bobbies hanging around here, fussing things up in the street. Do you hear me? Next time you escape, you lay low for a few weeks! Don't be parading yourself around!"

Dodge nodded, demure and subdued, until the Blacksmith sighed and patted his shoulder. He nodded at him with a reserved smile.

"Be sure to have your mum see to that bruise. It's an eyesore."

He moved off, leaving the boys to their own devices. Sparrow Boy tried to return to his work, but curiosity got the best of him and he eventually asked his friend:

"How did you manage it this time?"

Dodge's face lit up.

"They've not fixed the shaky bar. I kicked it out, just like last time. Easy."

"One of these days, you'll get yourself killed."

"Not today! Besides, I have things to do before then. Like watching you sail off on your maiden voyage!"

Sparrow Boy rolled his eyes and tried to return his attention to his work. His friend swung his legs around on the stool to better face him, laughing and leaning on his bench.

"Imagine – the boy with a pirate dad becomes a captain!"

"I don't have a pirate dad," he murmured, inspecting the sword flat against his palm. Dodge continued as if he had never spoken.

"The irony! It's great. Best I've ever heard. Your mum's such a bitch about it, though. She's a sourpuss. She met _Captain Jack Sparrow._ Jack Sparrow!"

"Shut up, Dodge."

The night went on. The moon dangled high in the sky when the Blacksmith finally stood up and shrugged on his coat.

"Time for me to head home, lads," he said; "Hank, come on. No use leaving you to wander by yourself with all the bobbies about." The urchin sprang to his feet and made to follow him. He hesitated before taking off his hat, turning and thrusting it on his friend's head with a smile.

"There! Just like Captain Jack!"

Sparrow Boy had no time to protest as Dodge sped off behind the Blacksmith. The door closed behind them, blowing out the candles lit around the shop, and he was plunged into darkness.

"Dodge!" he shouted at the door. He sighed and his shoulders slumped, fumbling about the shop to find the matches his mentor kept. Once he discovered them on a desk he struck one, then went about relighting the candles. The last he did was nearer a dirty mirror the Blacksmith had fixed months before and the owner simply never picked up. His face was cast in a soft orange glow, and behind the flecks and specks he could see the hat on his head, the fierce, familiar intensity of his eyes.

He stared at himself. His white shirt was drenched with sweat and dirty. His trousers were burnt in places, covered in shavings and the occasional dusty handprint, and his shoes were worn and old. The bent hat completed the image. Locks of black hair peeked out from underneath. He was not a future captain, but a pirate.

"He's not my father!" he whispered to himself, touching the brim of the hat; "I'm not a pirate!"

The child sighed and let his hand drag down across his face. He kept his eyes closed for a long while. When he dared to open them again, he saw the same pirate boy looking back at him.

"I'm not…"


	2. The Cuff

The hours passed. The sun peeked out over the horizon, and with a sigh Sparrow Boy finished his day's work and looked at the cold dawn-light filtering in from the window. He set the sword down on the table, polished and perfected, and let his shoulders slump as the tension bled out of his body. It had been a difficult one to forge. The blade reflected the orange and pink sky while the jewels sparked at him, as if congratulating him on his work. It made him smile.

The child left the shop some twenty minutes later, shrugging on a tattered coat the Blacksmith had given him. It was cold outside. There was a layer of frost over the road and the streetlamps were burning low, the flame barely flickering through the frozen glass. The air had a distinct lack of despair in it as he ambled his way down the cobbled roads and passed through the quiet deserted streets. All of the lights were blown out of the windows. The entire world was asleep.

It was a rare moment of peace in the city, and Sparrow Boy found himself enjoying the cold air in his lungs and the silence in his ears. He walked unhurried down alleys and backroads, humming old tunes to himself as he slipped his hands inside his pockets to stave off the worst of the chill. Dodge's hat was still on his head. He had forgotten to leave it behind, and it kept him relatively warm while he made his way home.

He lived on a street near the Thames, where the main attraction was an old tavern his mother often met her customers in. His house was cold and dank; there was mould on the walls and crawling up the furniture, which was old and mostly second-hand. The cushions on their sofa were sad and discoloured and the floor was his bed. It was not too uncomfortable as the wood was rotted, but the smell was stale and foetid. His mother commanded the master bedroom, and when he was trying to sleep in the early hours of the morning he could hear her footsteps on the floor, her soft murmuring to her customers and the noise from the street.

The street itself had the constant appearance of being wet. The sad, crooked houses bent inwards and the stones glistened as if they had been crying. Sparrow Boy wandered down the cracked pavements, kicking a stone as he went, and ignored the beggars huddled up in dark alley mouths as he reached his door and went into his house.

It was quiet. He could not hear his mother upstairs, but he put it down to a fruitless night and draped his coat gingerly across the sofa. The child settled down on the floor and put his back against the rotten sofa frame, sighing to himself as the cold settled into his bones. It occurred to him he had not seen the local homeless men wandering near the tavern, or the punters that usually drifted up his street after closing time, but his attention was soon distracted by an irritated old cut on his palm.

Clutching and flexing his hand, Sparrow Boy thought about sleep. Just as he was about to lie down and ignore the woodlice crawling past his face, there was a knock at his door.

He ignored it. There was another. Harder. He looked up. Another knock – a rapping. Sparrow Boy sighed and stood up, moving to the door with heavy, tired footsteps.

"I'm coming!" he called at the sound of another rapping. He reached out and turned the door handle, and braced himself against the frozen wind that blew through his house and made it groan.

There were two constables standing outside. They were both rough-faced men with moustaches hiding their top lips, and when they saw him the older one nodded.

"Sparrow Boy?" he said. The boy's eyes narrowed. He recognised him as one of the policemen that harassed Dodge, and sometimes even came and checked their shop for contraband.

"I am." He reluctantly replied.

"You're under arrest," he had no time to react as the younger man grabbed his hand and pulled him through the door; "for accessory of smuggling, trafficking of illegal substances, and prostitution."

"What?!" he shouted. The handcuff's cold metal clamped down on and bit into his wrists. He tried to struggle but the man was too strong. He held him in place even as he fought against him, and the older constable took the opportunity to pat him down.

"Get off of me! Let me go, you bloody pigs!"

"Keep him still," the older one ordered his friend. "This little bastard has to have something on him."

"He's really kicking!" his partner said, but he was already stomping into the house and riffling through the putrid furniture. There were a few yelps as he came across clumps of spiders and curled up woodlice, and soon after he emerged empty-handed and furious.

"They're hiding it!" he declared; "Come on. We need to take him to the chief."

"I don't have anything! I haven't done anything!" he kicked out at the men. "Get the Blacksmith! He'll tell you the same damn thing!"

"For God's sake, will you just gag him already?"

A dirty taste filled Sparrow Boy's mouth as the younger constable shoved a rag into his mouth. He was dragged and pulled into the street, towards a horse-drawn black carriage with a barred window at the back. Curious faces peered out from their various hiding holes. He could see a dozen eyes staring down from the shattered windows around them.

"Mmph! Mmphh!" he screamed; "Mmphhhhh!"

The door opened. Sparrow Boy was thrown into the darkness head-first, and before he could regain his balance or even put his knee out to break his fall, he heard the door slam behind him and the constables stamp away to the front of the carriage. His forehead stung and his nose throbbed from where he had smashed against the wall. Dodge's hat had fallen from his head and laid in the dust beside him. He almost crushed it as he staggered to his feet.

"Mmph!" he protested to the empty air, kicking at the walls; "Mmphhhhh!"

But he was alone, and it was silent.


	3. Dead Men

The cells he was forced into were dirty and smelt of decay. Death clung to every corner; rats rifling through fossilised food scraps; tattered pieces of old prisoners' clothing; notches carved into the stone underneath the bench; there was even a chamber pot that had not been cleaned in years wedged near the window. Flies buzzed about it with a noisy vengeance.

Sparrow Boy sat quietly, clutching his hands close to him. His legs were crossed and his eyes cast down, demure and defeated as he tried to make sense of the situation. The light filtering through the bars of his cell crept along the floor as the day wore on, and for hours he saw no one.

He had heard a scholar in the tavern once call prison 'the seat of all resentment'. It was where the unjust were sent, where the wicked festered and thrived, watching through iron bars as life went on without them. Men traded small luxuries for lifelong debts – cigarettes for manual labour, chocolate for teeth, beer for loyalty. There were no rules. There was only time, and a lot of it.

"Dead man walking! O, dead man walking!" the voice jarred him from his thoughts and made him start. A constable wandered past his cell grasping a shuffling prisoner in front of him, his ankles shackled and his eyes downcast and cold. Sparrow Boy had never seen a prisoner cry at execution. But he saw one cry now, as the cage beside him was opened and the man was thrown inside, unshackled, to sit alone and silently on his bench. His eyes became moist and he turned away from the boy. He watched for a while longer, then sighed and faced the bars again.

There were a few more hours of quiet, occasionally peppered by squeaking rats or rattling chains. The child listened out for another constable, but he heard none. It was not until the moon was coming up that a pair made their way through the cells.

He watched them move without a word. The constables looked at him, murmured something, and hurried over to the cage beside his to stare at the other prisoner. The murmuring continued. It was loud enough for him to overhear.

"This the one?" said the officer furthest away from him.

"That's him."

"Don't seem like much."

"What'd you expect? He's a pirate, not a unicorn. Plenty more where he came from."

"Still, the way people were talking 'bout him-"

"He's a ruthless son of a bitch, alright. Execution's too good for the likes of him. I say throw 'em all in a wolf pit – let them go the way all other vermin do."

"There's an idea. Say, how's Martha?"

The officers moved off and left the prisoners alone again. Sparrow Boy watched as they went down the hall and were swallowed by shadows, vanishing out of sight as their voices faded and disappeared. Their footsteps echoed into nothingness.

The other prisoner waited until he was certain they were alone. Then, he turned his head to the boy. His cheeks were sallow and his skin a pale, sickly yellow, his wrists smaller than Sparrow Boy's as he brought his thin knees up to his chest. The move was almost too much for him.

"You the Blacksmith's boy?" he asked. His voice was so rough and strained that, for a moment, the child could not understand. Once he had finally pieced it together, he nodded. "Ah. Shame."

"Shame?"

"There's a decent future in smithing. Everyone needs a good smith – horseshoes, nails, swords, the like. Ain't much where you're heading, son."

"Where am I heading?" the boy turned and propped his leg up on the bench. He felt the jagged stone wall cut into his knee.

"They ain't told you?"

He shook his head. The pirate huffed out a chuckle.

"Figures. Aye, I suppose they wouldn't. You're one of us now – they don't tell us shit. They're sending you down to Port Royal, son."

"Port Royal?"

"That's right. There's a fancy dungeon up there, needs men to fill it. Bobbies are sittin' up there with their pricks in their hands."

"But…but the smith-"

"Smith's a good man. Good man. He's got hisself a reputation to uphold, son. There ain't no room in that for convicts."

"He's helped Dodge! He'll come and get me!" the child snapped, his shoulders rising in defence.

The prisoner's face softened somewhat. His tired eyes stared at him with a sort of pity. "He might try, but he ain't 'bout to beat back the entire London police force. There's no hope, lad. Might as well accept it. Worse places to end up than prison."

"I didn't _do_ anything!" he protested; "They can't send me away without evidence! I haven't broken the law! I haven't done anything wrong!"

"That ain't their concern, lad; their concern's whether or not there's a face behind the blame. Ever seen evidence, lad? There ain't none. They don't need it. What're you in for?"

Sparrow Boy fought to even out his breathing. He could feel his heart thrumming in his chest, but he forced himself to calm down and concentrate. With a long, slow exhale, he replied.

"Accessory of smuggling, trafficking of illegal substances, and prostitution. That's what they said."

"That word for word?"

He nodded.

"Impressive list. Sounds like a pirate's crime."

"I'm not a pirate."

"Nah, you're too small for it. Prostitution? There's a lass just arrested for that. Sent down the way of old Beatrice, she was."

"Old Beatrice?"

"Got her number on the chopping block. She's a dead one now. No saving her. Shame – she was a pretty lass."

"Who was she?" he asked as he rested his head against the wall.

"Don't know her name. Never do these days. Ain't no more class in execution. But her face, that's a story in itself. Soft chin, brown hair, doe eyes. Innocent look. Most dangerous ones look innocent."

Sparrow Boy's head rose. He peered at the prisoner for a long while, uncertain if he had imagined the wistful tone in his voice. The description was familiar, and with a shiver running down his spine he mustered up the courage to ask a question.

"Was she wearing a shell necklace?"

His companion was quiet. The child's eyes narrowed even further in the darkness, admiring the soft moonlight silhouetting his decrepit, fragile frame.

"She was," he muttered; "Aye, that she was. Little shell, thin chain. Tried to take it off her, but she bit down on their fingers. She had some fight in her! Shame. Such a shame."

Sparrow Boy sat back. He stared wide-eyed and slack-jawed at his surroundings, at the hairy, thick spiders crawling across the floor over forgotten and dusty manacles, the motes circulating in the stale air. His heart leapt to his throat. He felt his entire world spin.

"Mother…" he whispered to the unforgiving emptiness around him.


	4. Experienced Sailors

It was not a favourable climate for sailing. There was a storm, and with every flash of lightning it felt as if the end of the world was charging closer. Sparrow Boy had been hauled to the harbour in a black horse-drawn carriage, handcuffed and despondent, as the officers in the front discussed recent executions and arrests.

"There's a pretty little lass in the tavern – 'ave you heard her? She's a songbird if ever I heard one."

"I hear she's involved with Funar," the other officer's voice reminded him of a warbling heron; "She'll be a problem later on, mark my words. Pretty faces hide dark hearts."

"Ah, her? She's too delicate for that. Problem with these women today – not hardy enough. How's a lass supposed to bear and rear children if she can't stand an old bodice? There's no motherin' without sacrifice."

Sparrow Boy's eyes narrowed and he kicked the wall. The noise derailed their conversation.

"Hey, you keep quiet back there!" he heard a thump. "Damn kid's got no respect."

"What do you expect? His mum was a whore."

The officers went quiet. Sparrow Boy listened to the wheels turning against the cold hard cobblestones of London, the rain hammering hard at the carriage walls, and waited for the doors to open to the Thames. The storm's howling set him on edge.

 _These aren't good conditions for sailing,_ he thought the further the cart rumbled.

Finally, it came to a halt. Sparrow Boy jerked forward before he caught himself, glaring as the doors opened and the officers pulled him out into the rain. They stood on the street that looked down on their makeshift harbour. He saw the ships all crowded near the port, huddled together against the storm as their hulls moaned and whistled, and a number of sailors were preparing an unadorned, cheerless ship for voyage. London Bridge sat stoic in the background. The child found himself staring at it as he was dragged towards the captain.

The captain was a stern man; a man with a weathered face and scarred lips, a wandering eye that was a shade lighter than seafoam. He had the bushy sideburns of a sea captain, but the new boots and slicked hair of a well-to-do upperclassman. There was no pipe. If he had one, Sparrow Boy might have felt more at ease.

"This 'im?" he grumbled. His voice was gruff, but not the comforting gruff of the Blacksmith. It seemed impatient.

"This is," the officer holding him pushed the child forward. The captain inspected him with his steady eye.

"This's a boy."

"Don't be fooled," Sparrow Boy heard the other officer step forward; "This lad's been doing all sorts round here. He's a troublemaker, make no mistake."

"But still a lad." The captain put his hand on his shoulder. He guided him forward, offering a reassuring smile that seemed foreign on his face. "I'll take him to Port Royal all the same, permitting the storm passes."

"We paid you for immediate passage, storm or not."

"If we set sail in this, the ship'll never make it."

"The prisoner needs to reach Royal in a few months. There's an order out to escort him immediately to his new cell. He can't be late."

"Do you know anything about sailing, son? Plenty can change our course. Weather, pirates, other ships – name it, it'll change it. We can't be certain we'll reach it in a few months, same as we can't be certain we'll be able to weather out the storm. A good captain wouldn't risk his men's lives over a few pounds."

"No, but a few _hundred_ pounds paid out by His Royal Majesty is a different matter." The officer reached out for Sparrow Boy. "If you won't take him, I'm sure some other captain will. There's plenty put-out sailors who're willing to serve their crown."

The captain's fingers tightened on Sparrow Boy's shoulder. The child was silent. His permanent frown seemed to grow harder as he was urged to his escort's side.

"I'll take 'im, like I said, but I'll tell you this – the sea'll be rough, and if me and my boys lose our ship…well, that's on the crown's head."

"We'll take that into consideration."

The officers nodded and passed on curt orders, then turned and clambered on the carriage again. Sparrow Boy did not see them move off; he only heard the crunch of the wheels against the ground, the laughter as the pair of them disappeared into the raining night.

There was silence for a moment. The child looked down at the port. He could hear the ships' groaning over the wind, and he spied a couple of familiar faces in the sailors – people he had seen leaving his home in the early hours of the morning, or wandering up from the tavern in a cheerful haze.

"Police," the captain snorted; "There's a waste of time if ever I saw one. On the ocean, we don't have police – we have swords and honour. Give a man too much power and he'll run wild with it. 'Police'. Glorified hat-stands."

"Are we really sailing in this?" Sparrow Boy asked as his escort peeled off his tattered beige coat and put it over his head. He could hear the rain hammering against it.

"We have no choice. Bastards or not, they're right; the crown's paid for your passage. The boys won't be pleased."

The child was led down the rain-slicked stairs towards the ship. He almost slipped a few times, but the captain was quick to catch him before he could tumble down too far. He even murmured encouragements every now and then.

"How many strong is your crew?"

"I have thirty-three decent men managing my ship. Experienced sailors, all of 'em. You'll see what a good crew can do."

He was led to the port, and from there the captain nodded to some of his men and rested his hand on Sparrow Boy's shoulder again. Confused faces looked at him. The child held their gaze.

Once he was led on board, he had a chance to inspect the deck. It was well-swabbed, clean and cared for, but the rain had wet the wood and made the entire thing smell damp. The crew were strapping down sails and preparing for voyage, though he spied concern in all of their faces.

"Take him down to the cell," the captain ordered to a passing man. "Don't be too rough, now. It'll be a long journey – let's all get along."

The sailor nodded. He took Sparrow Boy by the handcuffs and led him to a door, which he opened to a long, steep set of stairs that went down into darkness.

"Come on, lad."

As the door closed shut behind them, he heard the captain starting to issue orders for sail.


	5. The Unforgiving Ocean

The ship moaned and screeched as the waves hammered against the hull.

Sparrow Boy was thrown to the side multiple times, slammed against the grimy bars of his cell as somewhere amidst the howling winds, he heard the captain shouting. His hands free of their bindings, the child tried to break his fall, but crashed face-first on the wet floorboards below him while water leaked through occasional holes in the keel. His nose throbbed and went numb. He hauled himself to his feet, though the ship lurched from left to right and threatened to topple him.

 _Bloody crown!_ He thought as he clutched his face.

There was a loud crash overhead, then panicked footsteps. He listened as muffled voices shouted. He could hardly hear it above the wind.

Then, there was a loud, ominous boom.

Sparrow Boy's heart leapt to his throat when he heard it, crouching down to the flooded floor and looking up at the ceiling. It was night, he deduced. He could not see sunlight filtering in through the floorboards.

There was another boom. Then another. Then, he heard a crash, and men's panicked screaming to _**reload, fire, protect the ship**_ **!** The child lurched again to the side as something large impacted another area of the ship, and somewhere, someone started shouting for God. Sparrow Boy stumbled to the bars of his cell. He rattled them in a desperate attempt to escape, but it was no use. The lock had been turned, and so, it seemed, had his fate.

 _I'm going to die here,_ he thought as he pulled at the cell door.

There more booms, more crashes, and more cries of anguish and terror as Sparrow Boy fought to free himself. Then he heard it – a faint, distant whistle that quickly became louder and faster, and before he knew it there was an explosion beside him, spraying shards of wood against his side and throwing him from his feet to the floor. His face plunged into the shin-high water. He felt the salt stinging his eyes, heard muffled thuds above him, before the disorientation of the blast finally ebbed enough that he was able to pull himself over to the bars. He pulled himself up to air, gasping and coughing, his teeth chattering behind his lips. There was a hole where the wall beside his cell had been. He could see the seawater pouring in. The moonlight reflected off of the back of the beast that threatened to drown him.

Sparrow Boy thought he had succumbed to his fate, when suddenly a pair of hands snatched at him from behind. He looked up in the relative darkness and saw a face; a face with scars streaked across it and a maniacal grin filled with rotting teeth, cracked and chipped and crooked. There was a dirty scruff on his chin that reminded him of an Irish Wolf Hound, and mad eyes, evil eyes, staring at him as he pulled at his arms.

"There's one!" he said to someone behind him. There was a foreign drawl in his voice, but Sparrow Boy could not place it. "Get that cage open!"

"This 'un's a boy, Abe. Ain't no use for more lads on the ship."

"He's good slave-meat. Look at him – he'll be sold for a pretty penny, we find the right buyer."

"Buyers're harder to come by these days."

"Just open the damn cage. The water's coming in fast!"

Abe kept his hold on Sparrow Boy while his friend went to the cell door. The child struggled, but he was still disorientated. The word 'slave' sent his mind into a panicked overdrive, and faintly, faintly he could hear the cell door rattling above the water, heard murmured curses as the man tried to jar the bars open.

"'S no use," he said after a while; "Locked tight."

There was another boom. The ship lurched to the side and shuddered with the impact. It loosened Abe's grip on Sparrow Boy's shoulder, and in that moment the boy broke free and dragged himself away to the middle of his cell. He half-laid in the rising water, glaring at them in defiance. It was then that he noticed the wet and fresh blood on their hands, and the swords holstered at their sides in tattered leather sheaths.

"The cannons're still going. We need'a leave."

"Not until we get the boy!"

"No point. He's a dead'un come morning. The sharks'll 'ave him."

Abe rose to full height and squared up against his companion. He was a tall man, but the other was broader and younger, more muscular around the shoulders. If it came to blows, Sparrow Boy knew who would win – and no matter who did, his life would be short and brutal.

The pair glared at each other for a moment that seemed to drag on for hours. Then, finally, Abe acquiesced.

"Fine," he grumbled. "We'll leave 'im. But we're wasting a golden opportunity."

"Plenty more slaves on the sea, Abe; plenty more slaves on the sea."

Sparrow Boy watched as they trampled past the empty cells and went up to the stairs. Before he disappeared, Abe turned and stared at him, his evil eyes boring into the child's soul, then spat and barked:

"Waste of slave-meat!"

The pair vanished, leaving Sparrow Boy alone. The water was rising to the point where he floated from the floor. The child looked left and right, desperately searching for an escape, his ears ringing as the cannon fire continued, his mind reeling with thoughts of drowning and death. He flailed uselessly in the water. He was helpless.

There was another boom. The whistle rapidly grew louder. Sparrow Boy braced for another impact, and again on the other side of him a cannonball exploded through the hull, obliterating the wall that supported his cell. The water came in faster, and a current forced him against the wood that separated him from the sea.

 _I'm going to die!_

The child was thrown against the wall numerous times, each one harder than the last. Then, finally, the wood gave way, and before he could send a prayer or even form a coherent thought in his head, he was smashed against the iron of a neighbouring cell that had come loose in the water. The breath was knocked out of his lungs and his eyes stung with seawater. His skull throbbed from the impact.

By the time he had wrenched his eyes open, he came face-to-face with the decimated wall of his cell. Before he had time to understand he was being pulled out to sea, the neighbouring cell broke through the rippling surface again. The current threw him against it.

Sparrow Boy's consciousness started to fade. He was half aware of the water swirling around him, of how cold his limbs were becoming, how his joints were stiffening, before he was smashed once more into the cell. His head connected with the iron, and he succumbed to unconsciousness.


	6. Driftwood

The sunlight roused him by degrees.

It warmed his back as the water lapped at his waist. His eyes wrenched open, and before him blurred a world of endless blue, reflecting a harsh and sharp white light that made him squint. His head throbbed. The metallic taste of blood and iron was waylaid with an enormous thirst, and as Sparrow Boy gathered his strength to turn his head in the other direction he recalled the cannon-fire that had destroyed the ship, the storm that had washed him out to sea.

Now, there was calm.

After some considerable effort, he turned. He was met immediately with the other end of his new vessel – a piece of driftwood, large enough to hold him if he had strength enough to pull himself up, and the ocean stretching out in the other direction. But the instant he had turned his head, Sparrow Boy let out a hoarse, choked cry.

The Captain laid beside him, his wandering eye still and lifeless, his mouth open in a never-ending scream. One side of his face was slathered in dried blood and vomit and his outfit was encrusted with it. A cold hand clutched at one of the child's forearms, and at the sight of him Sparrow Boy's cry turned into weeping.

After some time, the shock of the image passed and he lifted his head to peer at the corpse beside him. The Captain's bulging seafoam eyes stared out at eternity. The child reached out and with some difficulty drew them shut. They opened again. He attempted to close his mouth, but rigor mortis had set in and made the carcass stiff and inflexible. He looked down at his forearm. The Captain's fingers were still clutched there.

 _I have to pull myself out of the water,_ he thought to himself: _I need him to let go._

There was one idea that sprung to mind, and while he recoiled from it Sparrow Boy knew it was his only hope. He prayed he had the strength as he put his hand over his companion's, feeling individually every last finger that trapped him. He settled on the index finger first, then, breathing deeply, pulled it with all of his might.

The bone snapped under his fingertips. The crunch made him sick to his stomach but still he continued, snapping each and every one of the digits that held onto him, feeling the Captain's grip loosen as he went. Each one was stubborn, but the last finger was the most difficult. After some time and pulling it finally gave way and shattered at the joint, and with his last vestiges of strength Sparrow Boy pulled himself up on the raft and turned to peer at the corpse.

The Captain's other hand had slipped with the driftwood's movement. He was sinking into the ocean when the boy looked, his eyes still wrenched open and his mouth filling with seawater, and his unnaturally bent fingers sticking up in all directions as he sank beneath the watery surface and out of the child's sight forever. He felt his eyes fill with tears. The ocean stretched out at either side of him, unbroken by land, settlement, or ship. There were no seals or dolphins to accompany him. There were no gulls to guide him.

He was well and truly alone.

The hopelessness of his situation at last wore out the last of his energy. He let out another soft, choked sob as he laid his head down on the hot driftwood, and quickly, he succumbed to sleep.

* * *

The child drifted for hours. The ocean cradled him, and soon after he had fallen into unconsciousness the clouds had come to cover the sun and reduce the risk of exposure. Sparrow Boy's little driftwood life-raft went untouched for hours, but when the wind started to brew in the south and the first waves started to form, he still had not woken.

It was then that a ship appeared on the horizon. The sun was setting, turning the water red with flame, and on his little raft the child slept soundly, unaware of the horror that sailed closer to him. The boat was black; its boards were wet and dark, the hull covered in barnacles. The tattered flag that waved on its post was as dark as the night. It moved with unnatural speed, and in what seemed like a moment it had charged up to the sleeping child and was racing past him, set on a course for Hell.

"There!" came a cry from above, "D'you see that?"

"Is'a corpse, Pintel! Washed up from that storm westward."

"Aye, and it's bound to have a coin or two it won't be needin'! Let's pull it up. Get the hook!"

Sparrow Boy remained asleep as a bent, rusted nail on a long rod was lowered down and hooked through his shirt. He was pulled upwards, and finally the movement woke him. He opened his eyes as the men on the deck lifted him higher, and in his confusion and panic the child started to shout and kick his legs.

"Argh!" shouted the voice again. "This 'un's alive!"

"Pull it up! Let's 'ave a look at its face."

He fought, but the burst of adrenaline soon left him and Sparrow Boy went almost limp, hoping that his dead weight would inevitably be too much for them to lift. He was wrong. The higher he ascended, the closer he came to Hell; and with a weary sigh he thought how cruel it was that he would escape one death sentence and find himself with another.

"Is'a lad!"

He was heaved on to the deck just as fishermen would heave mackerel. Thrown to the floor, the wind was knocked out of Sparrow Boy's lungs as he tried to haul himself up, only to rest on his forearms as he coughed and spluttered for air. The men that had pulled him up fell back on the banister to catch their breath.

"Well, well!" said one – the man with the first voice, a balding man with a soiled handkerchief tied around his neck. "Look at this 'un, Ragetti. Ain't he just precious?"

"Wha'ssamatter, lad? 'Fraid of the sea? Catfish got your tongue?" laughed the second, his teeth broken and black and his joints cracking with every step he took. One eye was normal, but the other appeared set at an odd angle and stared lifelessly at his nose.

"F-fuck you," Sparrow Boy spluttered. Pintel's face crunched in fury as he stalked closer, yanking the boy up by his shoulder. What he saw made him recoil. The child dropped to the floor.

"Ragetti, get Barbosa!" he commanded. His friend peered at him in confusion.

"Cap'in's ordered not to be disturbed," he said.

"Oh he'll want to be disturbed for this. Get him, now! Go!"

The elder shooed his friend away and, perturbed at the sudden change in mood, Ragetti hurried to obey his command. Pintel peered down at the boy lying on the floor before him. His coughing and hoarse gasps for air fell on deaf, compassionless ears. There was amazement in the pirate's ugly eyes.

"Fancy that," he murmured to himself, "We have ourselves a little doppelgänger!"


	7. Interrogation

A melted face etched out of stone.

That was Sparrow Boy's opinion of Barbosa, the first time he met him. He was tied to a chair and his limbs were sore, his wrists hot and bloody from fighting against his restraints. For a brief moment, he felt helpless. But he was not a frightened child; he would never be a frightened child.

Barbosa's breath smelt of cheap alcohol and a thousand years of sea-life. His teeth were broken and black, but he bared them in a smug smile as he loomed just in front of the boy, quietly inspecting him. Sparrow Boy glared for as long as he could. Barbosa's entire being screamed unnatural.

"Well," he finally broke the silence, "What've we got here, then?"

The child pulled at his restraints again. Ragetti had tied them – the only job, it seemed, he was excellent at.

"My boys fished you out of the ocean. Thought you were a corpse."

"They're idiots."

"Perhaps," he replied with a chuckle, "and perhaps there's something to be said for the state you're in, lad. You stink like a carcass. Where 're you coming from? That's a London accent."

Sparrow Boy hesitated. Then, with a slight quiver in his voice, he said, "Near the Thames."

"Ooo, the Thames. There's a place I haven't seen in a long time. Tell me, how's the air? Can you breathe?" he stood and took in a deep breath. That same unnerving smile never left his face. "Never much liked London. Too much goin' on. Always preferred the open water."

Barbosa delved into the shadows in the corner of the room and pulled out another, even older chair. He sat on it and rubbed his heavily-ringed hands together, staring at Sparrow Boy as though he were a test subject – an object of intrigue.

"What was your ship?"

"I don't know."

"Don't be telling me lies, boy. Crewmates know their ships. Tell me."

"I wasn't a crewmate."

Barbosa sat back. Confusion flickered on his face, and then understanding. The smile returned.

"Ah," he said, a long, drawn-out note, "I see. A prisoner, then."

The boy was silent.

"What's your crime?"

"Accessory of smuggling, trafficking of illegal substances, and prostitution."

"Quite a list. Trial?"

He shook his head. Barbosa let out a little choked laugh, reminiscent of a hundred cigarettes.

"His Majesty's own justice. Judge, jury, executioner. Is that how you ended up in the sea, lad? Thrown overboard? Left for the sharks?"

"No. We were attacked."

"Attacked?" he replied, "There's been no attacks, lad. We control these seas. We don't care about poxy prisoner ships."

"Not the only pirates in these seas, then."

Barbosa paused. He brought his hands up to his face and rubbed them together, eventually blowing a steadying stream of air into the pocket between his skin.

"Worryin' news," he said, "Worryin' indeed. We've come across no ships, lad, and we'd 'ave seen more debris from an attack. You sure you're telling me the truth?"

"Every word of it."

Another pause.

"Here, you remind me of someone."

Sparrow Boy rolled his shoulders and tried to look away. The room was drab and uninteresting, but he tried to focus on the splintered wood around him, the bite of the restraints around his wrists.

"Jack Sparra."

"Never heard of him."

"Ah," he laughed, "A lie. You've a tell, son. So you weren't lyin' before – there was an attack. Well, why're you lying now?"

He focused on the little splinters. He wondered if he could free himself and attack Barbosa, fight his way off of the ship. How strong would the crew be? How much could he struggle before his weakness caught up with him?

"I've heard stories."

"We've all heard stories."

"Of Jack. Of the Black Pearl. All stories."

"Anyone ever tell you," he said, drawing his chair closer, "that you're the spittin' image?"

He rolled his shoulders again. A few days ago, he was in the blacksmiths and hammering out a new sword. He was forging himself a future in those hot irons and cold, long winter nights. Was all that work – all of it – for nothing? Was he about to die at the hands of pirates?

"I've been told."

"Who's your mum?"

"She died. I never knew her."

"Another lie."

"She might as well have died."

Barbosa smirked and reached over to Sparrow Boy's restraints. He drew little patterns in them, as if it conjured some sort of memory.

"Ragetti's work," he noted. "He's thick, but he can sure tie someone down. No hope of breaking out of those, lad, not unless you answer my next questions very carefully."

The questions were basic, and he could answer none of them to any real success. Barbosa was quiet about his 'tell', though Sparrow Boy felt his ear twitch every so often when he tried to slip some false little detail to him.

Finally, after what felt like hours, Barbosa relented. He sat against his chair and looked at Sparrow Boy for a hot second, then nodded. He was satisfied.

"Right, then," he said. "No point keepin' you here."

"Does that mean you're about to kill me?"

"No, lad. Much worse, to some. We need a new hand – a crewmate to swap the decks down below. Since you're at loose end, you'll be with us. Shackled, of course." He stood and turned to the door. With a casual, evil smile, he threw over his shoulder:

"Welcome to the Black Pearl, lad."


	8. Caspian Dreams

There were eight stains on the floor. He was uncertain if all of them were removable; some seemed to be blood, others bile, and one or two he was not at all curious about. The thought of them made him nauseous. But he had been ordered to work, and so he did.

Barbosa left him alone – the iron shackles on his legs meant he could not flee far, and even if he were free he surmised he could not escape. He had no idea what part of the ocean he was in, nor who would save him when it came to light he was once a prisoner. And so, he scrubbed at the stains with little complaint, wondering whether or not he would ever see the shores of England again.

By the time he was finished, the moonlight was filtering through the floorboards overhead. He could hear boots hammering above him. The door to the cells opened, and two loud, heavy shoes clunked down the stairs, the jingle of jewellery like the tolls of a bell.

"My, my, lad," Barbosa's voice rang out. He stepped out of the staircase's shadow with a smile, but not one that brought comfort. "A lot of work's been done down here. Fellas will wonder where all the blood's gone."

Sparrow Boy set his bucket down before him. "They can have it." Barbosa's hoarse laughter echoed off of the walls.

"That's the spirit!" he said as he walked around the room. "You've got some fight in ya, lad. Good. We've a code out on these seas – you know it?"

"I serve the ship, don't I?" he replied.

"That's not the only rule of the Code, boy. Do you know any others?"

"The right of parley. No killing a surrendered enemy. No attacking other pirate ships."

"Four of eleven. Not bad. I'm almost impressed. But these is worryin' times. Not everyone respects the Code; not everyone that calls himself a pirate is one. That ship you came from. Tell me more about it."

Barbosa had turned and come to stand near him, and Sparrow Boy saw his hand resting on his sword. It must have seemed casual – all pirates wore them, after all – but to the boy, it was a threat. He knew that withholding information would see him killed. If he wanted to leave the Pearl with his life, if that were even possible, he would have to be honest.

"Thirty-three men strong. Captain was older, maybe early forties. Scars on his lips and a lazy eye."

"What about the _boat_ , lad? Tell me about that."

"I didn't see most of it. It was clean. The jails were big – big enough for twenty people, maybe. I was the only prisoner on board."

"I see." Barbosa paused for a moment. He lowered his head and closed his eyes, and for one second, Sparrow Boy thought about strangling him with his chains. Finally, he sucked in air through his teeth and looked at him.

"The other ship," he said, "the one that attacked you. Did you see it?"

"No. I was unconscious."

"Didn't come across any o' the crew?"

"Two men – one was called Abe, I think. I don't remember much. They wanted me."

"Aye, I see why. Young, small; good slave-meat."

Sparrow Boy nodded. He did not want to imagine what his life would have been like had he been snatched up as a slave.

"See, lad, I checked with my boys. No one's seen a ship, there's been no news o' one. I'm not sayin' you're a liar – I can tell when you're lyin' to me. But this's worryin'. Code's not being followed, methinks, to be sailing in our seas without my knowing."

"Pirates can't know everyone on the ocean," he reasoned. The Pirate Code had fascinated him for years; and he wondered for a moment, even though he tried to brush the thought away, if his father followed it as well.

"No, but these here are the Caspian Seas. My Seas. I'm the Lord on these waters, and every pirate ship sailing asks me first before comin' here."

Sparrow Boy was silent. The Caspian Seas? He was certain he was heading for Port Royal, but that was almost on the other side of the world. Had the captain of the first ship meant to free him? How had he ended up as far as the Caspian? Would he not have had to pass through two other countries to be there? It made no sense, and he cursed himself for falling unconscious. There were too many questions he would never have answered.

Barbosa seemed unnerved, as if the idea of someone flagrantly ignoring the Code had appeared in his territory, before he shook his head and pointed at the stairs.

"You'll be doin' those tomorrow," he informed him, "Til then, it's best to get some sleep, lad." Barbosa moved and unshackled him in one swift motion, allowing Sparrow Boy to rub his wrists and try to return the feeling to his heavy arms. The captain moved to the stairs – and threw over his shoulder:

"Don't be too frightened of the boys, now; they're not their best!"

The child eyed his receding figure suspiciously, and followed.

Once he stepped out onto the deck, Sparrow Boy felt his lungs fill with fresh sea air. It was so crisp and pure that he closed his eyes for a moment to appreciate it – and when he opened them, he felt his entire body recoil in on itself.

The men in front him were not men, but skeletons. Their ribs glinted in the moonlight and their flesh was brown and old, as if rotting off of them. Maniacal eyes stared at him and their laughter were from the depths of Hell itself, an endless trilling in the child's ears that he tried to rip out of himself, clutching at his head in a desperate attempt at sanctuary. The crew mocked him for his fright. He dashed past them, weaving in and out of the ghouls and towards the door to the lower deck, trying his best not to look at their moulted faces or exposed bones. Barbosa's laughter was harsh and vibrant as he wrenched open the hatch and dived inside of it.

The sleeping quarters were mercifully empty. Sparrow Boy sat in the darkest corner he could find, panting and curling in on himself, hugging his knees close to his chest. He watched that hatch for what felt like ages to make certain no one had followed him.

Once he was sure he was alone, the boy rested his head on his knees and wept.


End file.
